In place of that relaxed atmosphere of life and good cheer that seems to be, so to speak, exhaled by a firm enjoying prosperity; in place of the happy faces looking out of the windows and the busy clerks hurrying down the corridors with pens behind their ears; in place of the courtyard full of boxes, resounding to the shouts and laughter of the delivery men; in place of all this, from the moment he came in, he would have found an indefinable air of sadness and death. The corridor was empty, the courtyard deserted; and, of all the many employees who had once crowded into the offices, only two remained: the first was a young man, aged about twenty-three or twenty-four, named Emmanuel Herbault, who was in love with M. Morrel's daughter and had stayed with the firm despite his relatives' efforts to extricate him; while the other was an old cashier, one-eyed, nicknamed Coclès by the young people who had once populated this vast, busy hive which was now almost uninhabited, a label that had now so completely and utterly replaced any previous ones, that in all probability he would not even have turned around if someone were to have called him by his true name.

Someone who had known the interior of the House of Morrel a few years earlier, and who had then returned to Marseille at the period now reached by our narrative, would have found it much changed.

Coclès had remained in M. Morrel's service, and the good man's situation had changed in a rather unusual way: he had simultaneously risen to the rank of cashier and fallen to that of a house servant.

He was still the same Coclès for all that, kind, patient and devoted, but immovable when it came to arithmetic, the only point on which he would have challenged the whole world, even M. Morrel, knowing nothing beyond his Pythagorean tables, but having these at his fingertips, whichever way one chose to turn them or however one tried to lure him into error.

In the midst of the general depression that had settled over the firm of Morrel and Son, Coclès was the only one who had remained impassive. There should be no mistake: this impassivity was not due to any lack of feeling, but on the contrary to an unshakeable faith. We have mentioned that the host of clerks and employees who owed their livelihood to the shipowner's firm had gradually deserted the office and the shop, like the rats which, so they say, gradually leave a ship when it has been preordained by fate to perish at sea, with the result that these self-interested guests have entirely abandoned it by the time it sets sail. Coclès had watched all of them depart without even thinking to enquire into the cause of their departure. Everything for Coclès came down to a matter of numbers and, in the twenty years that he had worked for Morrel's, he had always seen payments go through without hindrance and with such regularity that he could no more accept an end to that regularity or a suspension of those payments, than a miller whose wheel is turned by the waters of a plentiful stream would accept that the same stream might cease to flow. Indeed, nothing so far had threatened Coclès' confidence. The previous month's payments had gone through with absolute punctuality. Coclès had noted an error of seventy centimes which M. Morrel had made to his own detriment and, the same day, brought the excess fourteen sous to M. Morrel, who took them with a melancholy smile and dropped them into an almost empty drawer, saying: "Coclès, Coclès, you are a jewel among cashiers."

So Coclès left, more or less satisfied. Praise from M. Morrel, himself a jewel among the best men in Marseille, did more for Coclès' self-esteem than a bonus of fifty écus.

However, since achieving this victory over the end-of-month payments, M. Morrel had suffered some moments of agony. It had meant mustering all his resources. Fearful that the rumour concerning his difficulties might spread through the town if he was seen to be turning to such extremities, he had travelled in person to the fair at Beaucaire to sell some jewellery belonging to his wife and daughter, and part of his silver. As a result of this sacrifice, the reputation of the house of Morrel had been spared the slightest hint of a stain, but the cashbox was totally empty. With its usual egoism, all credit had slipped away, terrified by the rumours: the truth was that if he was to meet the hundred thousand francs which he would owe M. de Boville on the 15th of the present month, and the second hundred thousand francs which would fall due on the 15th of the month following, M. Morrel's only hope lay in the return of the Pharaon, which had certainly set sail, as they knew from another ship which had weighed anchor at the same time and which had come safely to port. But this ship (coming, like the Pharaon, from Calcutta) had arrived a fortnight earlier, while there was as yet no news of the Pharaon.

He was received by Emmanuel. The young man shied away from any unfamiliar face, because each new one meant a new creditor who had come to demand something from the shipowner, and he wished to spare his employer the unpleasantness of this visit; so he questioned the stranger; but the latter declared that he had nothing to say to M. Emmanuel: he wished to speak to M. Morrel in person. With a sigh, Emmanuel called Coclès. Coclès appeared, and the young man asked him to take the stranger to see M. Morrel.

"Monsieur Morrel is in his study, Mademoiselle Julie?" he asked.

"Yes -- at least I think he is," the girl replied, hesitating. "Coclès, you go first and see, and if my father is there, announce the gentleman."

This is how things stood when, the day after concluding the important business we have described with M. de Boville, the agent of the firm of Thomson and French, of Rome, announced himself on his arrival at Morrel and Son.

Coclès went ahead, the stranger following. On the staircase they passed a beautiful girl of between sixteen and seventeen, who looked uneasily at the stranger. The latter noticed the look, though it was lost on Coclès.

"There is no point in announcing me, Mademoiselle," the Englishman replied. "Monsieur Morrel does not know my name. This good man has only to let him know that I am the head clerk of Messrs Thomson and French, of Rome, with whom your father's firm does business."

Seeing the foreigner, he closed the register, rose and drew up a chair. Then, when the other man was seated, he sat down.

The girl paled and carried on down the stairs, while Coclès and the stranger continued on their way up. She went into the office where Emmanuel was sitting, and Coclès, using a key that had been entrusted to him and which warned the boss of some important arrival, opened a door in a corner of the second-floor landing, showed the stranger into an antechamber, opened a second door, which he then closed behind him and, after momentarily leaving the emissary of Thomson and French on his own, reappeared and signalled to him to enter. The Englishman did so, to find M. Morrel sitting at a table, paling at the awful columns of figures in the register that recorded his debts.

Fourteen years had profoundly changed the merchant who, thirty-six years old at the beginning of this story, was now about to reach fifty: his hair was grey, his forehead was lined with anxious furrows and his look, which had once been so firm and confident, had become vague and irresolute, as if it were constantly trying to avoid having to settle on a single idea or a single person.

"He informed you correctly, Monsieur. The firm of Thomson and French had some three or four hundred thousand francs to pay in France in the course of this month and the following; so, knowing your reputation for scrupulous punctuality, it collected all the bills that it could find with your signature and requested me to cash these bills successively as they came up for payment and to make use of the funds."

"Monsieur," said Morrel, apparently made still more uneasy by this appraisal, "you wished to speak to me?"

"Yes, Monsieur. You know on whose behalf I am here?"

"The firm of Thomson and French, or so my cashier says."

The Englishman looked at him with curiosity and obvious interest.

Morrel gave a deep sigh and drew a hand across a forehead covered in sweat.

"So, Monsieur," he said, "you have bills of exchange signed by me?"

"Well, first of all," the Englishman said, taking a sheaf of papers out of his pocket, "here is a transfer of two hundred thousand francs made out to the benefit of our firm by Monsieur de Boville, inspector of prisons. Do you acknowledge owing this amount to Monsieur de Boville?"

"For how much?" Morrel asked, in what he hoped was a confident voice.

"Yes, Monsieur, for some considerable amount."

"To be repaid…"

"Yes, I do. It was an investment that he made in my company, some five years ago, at four and a half per cent."

"I accept that," said Morrel, blushing with shame at the thought that for the first time in his life he might be unable to honour his signature. "Is that all?"

"Half on the fifteenth of this month, half on the fifteenth of next month."

"That's right. Then I have here thirty-two thousand francs, for the end of this month: these are bills which you have signed and which have been made out to our order by third parties."

"No, Monsieur. In addition, I have these bills, due at the end of next month, assigned to us by the firms of Pascal and Wild and Turner of Marseille: about fifty-five thousand francs. In all, two hundred and eighty-seven thousand, five hundred francs."

Poor Morrel's suffering as all this was being counted out is impossible to describe.

At this almost brutally direct approach, the colour drained horribly from Morrel's face.

"Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand, five hundred francs," he repeated mechanically.

"Monsieur," he said, "so far… and it is now more than twenty-four years since I took over this firm from my father, who had himself managed it for thirty-five years… so far, not a single bill signed by Morrel and Son has been presented at our counter and gone unpaid."

"Yes, Monsieur," the Englishman replied. Then, after a moment's silence: "I cannot conceal from you, Monsieur Morrel, that even allowing for your probity, which until now has been beyond reproach, the general rumour in Marseille is that you will not be able to meet your debts."

"Yes, I know that," said the Englishman. "But, as one man of honour to another, tell me honestly: will you be able to pay these as promptly?"

"Well? If this last resource were to fail…?"

Morrel shuddered and looked at the man opposite him with more confidence than he had shown so far.

"Well, Monsieur, it is hard to say it, but… I am already used to misfortune and I must learn to be used to shame… I believe that I should be obliged to withhold payment."

"Have you no friends who could help you in these circumstances?"

Morrel smiled sadly and said: "In business, Monsieur, as you very well know, one has no friends, only associates."

"A question which is asked with such frankness," he said, "deserves an equally frank answer. Yes, Monsieur, I shall pay if, as I hope, my ship arrives safely to port, because its arrival will restore to me the credit that has been lost to me because of a succession of accidents. But if, by misfortune, the Pharaon, which I am counting on as my last resource, were to fail me…"

Tears came to the poor shipowner's eyes.

And M. Morrel added glumly: "This delay is not natural. The Pharaon left Calcutta on February the fifth. It should have been here more than a month ago."

"What is that?" the foreigner said, straining his ears. "What is the meaning of that noise?"

"I must admit, Monsieur, that I am almost as fearful of receiving news of my vessel as of remaining in this uncertainty. At least uncertainty means the continuation of hope."

"As I was on my way to see you, a ship was coming into port."

"No, it is a ship from Bordeaux, the Gironde, also coming from India, but not mine."

"Perhaps it encountered the Pharaon and will bring you news."

"Your last?"

"My last."

"But it is not yours?"

"That is true," the Englishman muttered. "So you have only one hope left?"

"I know. A young man who has remained loyal to me in my misfortune spends part of his time at a lookout on the top floor of the house, hoping to be able to be the first to bring me good news. He told me of this ship's arrival."

"I am lost, Monsieur, completely lost."

"Only one."

"So that if this hope fails…"

Morrel got up to open the door, but his strength failed and he slipped back into his chair. The two men remained facing one another, Morrel shaking uncontrollably, the foreigner studying him with a look of profound pity. The noise had ceased, but Morrel still appeared to be waiting for something: the noise had a cause and must in turn produce some effect. The foreigner thought he could hear the footsteps of several people coming up the stairs and stopping on the landing. A key turned in the first door and it creaked on its hinges.

"My God! Oh, my God!" Morrel exclaimed, becoming pale. "What is it now?"

There was a considerable noise on the staircase: comings and goings, even a cry of distress.

"Only two people have the key to that door," Morrel muttered, "Coclès and Julie."

At that moment, the second door opened and the young girl appeared, pale, her cheeks bathed in tears. Morrel got up, trembling, and leant against the arm of his chair, because he could not stand up. He wanted to ask a question, but his voice failed him.

"Come in, come in," said Morrel. "I suppose you are all there at the door."

The girl did not reply, but nodded her head, still pressing it against his chest.

Indeed, no sooner had he spoken these words than Mme Morrel came in, sobbing, followed by Emmanuel. Behind them, in the antechamber, could be seen the rough features of seven or eight half-naked sailors. At the sight of these men, the Englishman started. He took a step as if to approach them, then thought better of it and stepped back into the darkest, most distant corner of the study.

"And the crew?" Morrel asked.

Morrel raised both hands heavenwards with a sublime look of resignation and gratitude.

"Father! Father!" she cried. "Have courage!"

"Oh, father!" the girl said, clasping her hands. "Forgive your child who is the bringer of bad news."

"Thank you, Lord!" he said. "At least you have smitten me alone."

Phlegmatic though the Englishman was, a tear rose to his eye.

"Safe," said the girl, "saved by the ship from Bordeaux that has just come into port."

The colour drained from Morrel's cheeks and Julie threw herself into his arms.

"The Pharaon is lost?" he asked in a strangled voice.

"Come here, Penelon," said the young man, "and tell us."

Mme Morrel went and sat down in the armchair, taking one of her husband's hands in her own, while Julie remained clinging to his breast. Emmanuel had stayed half-way across the room and seemed to link the Morrel family group to the sailors at the door.

"How did it happen?" Morrel asked.

"Good day, Monsieur Morrel," he said, as if he had left Marseille only the day before and had returned from Aix or Toulon.

"As far as the captain is concerned, Monsieur Morrel, he stayed behind, ill, in Palma. But, God willing, it was nothing and you will see him home in a few days, as fit as you or I."

Penelon switched his quid of tobacco from the right cheek to the left, put his hand in front of his mouth, turned around and spat a long jet of blackish saliva into the antechamber, then stepped forward and, swaying on his hips, began:

An old sailor, tanned by the equatorial sun, stepped forward, twisting the remains of a hat between his hands.

"That's good. Now speak up, Penelon," said M. Morrel.

"Good day, my friend," the shipowner said, unable to suppress a smile, even through his tears. "But where is your captain?"

"'What do I think of them, Captain? What I think is they're coming up a bit faster than they need to and they're a bit darker than well-meaning clouds have any right to be.'"

"'I'm thinking the same myself," said the captain, "and I'm going to take some precautions. We are carrying too much sail for the wind that's coming. Hey, there! Bring in the royal and furl the flying jib!'"

"Well now, Monsieur Morrel, we were near enough between Cape Blanc and Cape Boyador and sailing before a nice south-south-easter after having been well and truly becalmed for a week, when Captain Gaumard came over to me -- I should mention I was at the wheel -- and said: 'Penelon, old boy, what do you think of them there clouds gathering on the horizon?'"

"And I'll be blowed if I wasn't looking at them myself."

"Five minutes later, the mainsail was furled and we had only the foresail, the topsails and the topgallants."

"It was not before time. Hardly had the order been carried out than we had the wind on our heels and the ship was listing."

"'Fair enough!' said the captain. 'We're still carrying too much sail. Furl the mainsail!'"

"'Because, in your place, I still wouldn't be running ahead like that.'"

"'So, tell me, old Penelon,' said the captain. 'Why are you shaking your head?'"

"By which I mean you could see the wind coming like you can see the dust rising in Montredon. Luckily this storm was up against a man who knew it."

Everyone started at the unexpected sound of this firm, sonorous voice. Penelon shaded his eyes with his hand and looked at the person who was so confidently directing his captain's manoeuvre.

"'I think you're right, old man,' he said. 'There's a puff of wind coming.'"

"'If that's how you like to put it, Captain,' I said. 'Anyone who bought what's down there at the price of a puff would make on the bargain. It's an out-and-out storm, if I've ever seen one.'"

"'Double-reef the topsails!' the captain yelled. 'Let go the bowlines, to take in the topsails and weigh the yards!'"

"We did better than that, Monsieur," the old sailor said, with some respect, "because we struck the mizzen and turned into the wind to run before the storm. Ten minutes later, we struck the main topsails and went on with bare masts."

"That was not enough in those waters," said the Englishman. "I should have reefed in four times and got rid of the foresail."

"The ship was rather old to risk doing that," the Englishman said.

"'Dammit!' I said after we'd struggled for four hours. 'Since we're sinking, let's sink; you only die once!'"

"I gave him the wheel and went below. There was already three feet of water. I came back up, shouting: "All hands to the pump! To the pump!" But it was already too late. We all set to it, but I think the more we put out, the more there was coming in."

"That was well done," said the Englishman.

"Nothing inspires a man like a solid argument," the sailor went on, "and all the more so as meanwhile the weather had lightened and the wind had fallen. But, for all that, the water kept on rising, not much, perhaps two inches an hour, but it did rise. You see, two inches an hour may seem like nothing; but in twelve hours it's not an inch short of twenty-four, and twenty-four inches are two feet. Those two feet, added to the three we had already, makes five. And when a ship has five feet of water in it, it's fit to be called dropsical."

"Yes, it was indeed! That's what did for us. After twelve hours of being tossed this way and that, as if the devil was on our tail, we sprang a leak. 'Penelon,' the captain told me, 'I think we're going under, old chap. Give me the wheel and go down into the hold.'"

"'Is that how you set an example, Master Penelon?' said the captain. 'Well, just you wait there.' And he went to fetch a pair of pistols from his cabin. 'The first man who leaves the pump,' said he, 'I'll blow his brains out.'"

"The captain came down last; or, rather, he didn't come down, because he didn't want to leave the ship. I had to seize him myself and throw him after our shipmates, before jumping in myself. It was not too soon. Just after I jumped, the deck burst with a noise which you would have thought was a volley from a forty-eight-gun man-of-war."

"Listen, Monsieur Morrel," Penelon continued. "We loved the Pharaon but, much as a sailor may love his ship, he loves his hide better. So we didn't wait to be asked twice, especially as the ship itself was groaning as if to say: 'Be off with you, be off with you.' And it was telling the truth, the poor old Pharaon, because you could feel it literally going down under our feet. So in a trice the boat was in the sea and all eight of us were in the boat."

"'Come on, then,' said the captain. 'That's enough. Monsieur Morrel will have nothing to reproach us for: we've done what we could to save the ship; now we must try to save the men. To the boats, boys, and look sharp about it.'"

"Ten minutes later, it dipped its bows, then its stern, then started to roll over like a dog chasing its own tail. And finally, heigh-ho, boys! Brrrou…! Down she went, no more Pharaon!"

"As for us, we were three days with nothing to eat or drink, and we'd even started to talk about drawing lots to see which of us would be food for the rest, when we saw the Gironde. We signalled to her, she saw us, made for where we were, put down her boat and picked us up. That's how it happened, Monsieur Morrel, on my word! On the word of a sailor! Isn't that true, you others?"

A general murmur of assent showed that the storyteller had unanimous support for the truth of the basic facts and the picturesque embroidery of the details.

"Oh, no! Let's not talk about that, Monsieur Morrel."

"Very well, my friends," said M. Morrel, "you are fine men, and I already knew that no one was responsible for the misfortune that has befallen me other than my own fate. It's God's will and not the fault of men. Let us bow to His will. Now, how much pay are you owed?"

"Coclès, pay two hundred francs to each of these good men. At any other time, my friends," he went on, "I should have added: 'And give each of them two hundred francs bonus.' But times are bad, and the little money that remains is not mine to give. So accept my regrets, and don't hold it against me."

"In that case, we are owed three months…" said Penelon.

"On the contrary, let's," said the shipowner with a melancholy smile.

"What's concerned?"

"The money…"

Penelon grimaced with emotion, turned to his companions, said a few words to them and turned back.

"As far as that's concerned, Monsieur Morrel," he said, shifting his quid of tobacco to the other side of his mouth and sending a second jet of saliva into the antechamber to balance the first, "as far as that's concerned…"

"My dear friends!" exclaimed M. Morrel, deeply moved. "Thank you, you are all the best of men. But take it! Take it, and if you find a good owner to sail with, join him, you are free."

"Well?"

"Well, Monsieur Morrel, my comrades say that for the moment they will have enough with fifty francs each, and they can wait for the rest."

"I have no money left to build ships, Penelon," the shipowner replied, smiling sadly. "I can't accept your offer, generous as it is."

This last remark produced a startling effect on the worthy seamen. They looked at one another aghast. Penelon, as if winded by a blow, almost swallowed his quid; luckily he put a hand to his throat in time.

"What, Monsieur Morrel!" he said in a strangled voice. "What! You are dismissing us! Are you displeased with us?"

"No, my children, not at all," said the shipowner. "I am not displeased, quite the opposite. I am not dismissing you. But what do you expect? I have no more ships, I have no further need of seamen."

"Well, if you have no money, don't pay us. We'll just do what the poor old Pharaon did: we'll keep our sails furled!"

"What do you mean, you have no more ships?" said Penelon. "Well, have some more built. We'll wait. Thank God, we know what it is to ride out a spell of bad weather."

"Enough, my dear friends, enough!" M. Morrel exclaimed, stifled with emotion. "Go, I beg you. We shall meet again in better times. You go with them, Emmanuel, and see that my wishes are carried out."

"No, my friends -- at least, I hope not. Goodbye then." He signalled to Coclès, who took the lead; the sailors followed the cashier and Emmanuel followed the sailors.

"Now," the shipowner said to his wife and daughter, "please leave us alone for a moment. I have to talk to this gentleman."

"At least this is not farewell for ever, is it, Monsieur Morrel?" said Penelon.

He nodded towards the representative of Thomson and French, who had remained motionless throughout this scene, standing in his corner and intervening only with the few words we mentioned. The two women looked at the stranger, whom they had entirely forgotten, and left the room; but as she went the girl addressed a sublime look of supplication to him, to which he replied with a smile that any disinterested observer would have been astonished to see flowering on that icy face. The two men were left alone.

"Well, Monsieur," said Morrel, slumping down into a chair. "You saw and heard everything, so there is nothing for me to say."

"What I saw, Monsieur," said the Englishman, "is that you have suffered a further misfortune, as undeserved as the rest, and this has confirmed me in my desire to oblige you."

"Well, reassign all these bills to September the fifth. On that day at eleven in the morning" (the clock showed precisely eleven as he spoke) "I shall present myself here."

"Oh, Monsieur!" said Morrel.

"Yes."

Morrel hesitated. "Two months," he said.

"How long do you need?"

The last words were spoken so softly that the other man could not hear them.

"But do you think that the house of Thomson and French…?"

The bills were renewed, the old ones torn up, and at least the poor shipowner found himself with three months to muster his last resources. The Englishman accepted his thanks with the sang-froid peculiar to his nation and took his leave of Morrel, who accompanied him with his blessings as far as the door.

"Would you like a stay before paying me?"

"You are certainly the one whose bills fall due in the shortest time."

"Have no fear, Monsieur, I take full responsibility. Today is June the fifth."

"Let us see," said the foreigner. "I am one of your principal creditors, am I not?"

"A space of time might save my honour and so my life."

"I shall be waiting for you, Monsieur," said Morrel. "And you shall be paid, or I shall be dead."

"Good. I shall give you three."

"I promise."

On the staircase he met Julie. The girl was pretending to go down, but in fact had been waiting for him.

"Very well. Farewell, Mademoiselle. Stay always as good and virtuous as you are now and I truly believe God will reward you by giving you Emmanuel as a husband."

"Yes, Monsieur," Julie said.

"Oh, Monsieur!" she said, clasping her hands.

"Do you promise me this?"

"Mademoiselle," the foreigner said. "One day you will receive a letter signed by… Sinbad the Sailor. Do precisely as this letter tells you, however strange its instructions may seem."

Julie gave a little cry, blushed as red as a cherry and clasped the banister to stop herself falling. The stranger went on his way, with a wave of farewell. In the courtyard he met Penelon, who was holding a roll of one hundred francs in each hand, apparently undecided whether to take them with him.

"Come with me, friend," the stranger said. "We must talk."